When she was born, there were cameras flashing.  From the moment when she turned five, there were strangers who wanted her to sit still and smile while they took her picture. She didn't understand why they were always around.  She asked her mother how why there were cameras and strangers, her mother smiled absently and said that she was a very lucky girl.  She didn't like the way cameras followed her, the itchy dresses that she so often had to wear, or the powders and the creamy pink liquid the strangers put on her face.  She wanted to go explore and see the world.  Her mother always told her that one day she would.
When she turned six, a stranger started asking her questions about her favorite color, she started to say green because it reminded her of a frog, but then her mother told the stranger red.  She wondered why her mother had said that.  She hated red.  Her mother smiled absently down at her.
When she turned eight, her mother had told her to always tell the strangers that her favorite color was red, her favorite animal was a cat, and her favorite sport was ice skating.  She did not like cats, red, or ice skating.  She wondered why she couldn't just say what she actually enjoyed, why she had to lie about herself?  The strangers asked her so many questions, and took so many pictures.  She lived in a world constant of scrutiny, and there was no escape.  She wished for a door, a light at the end of her tunnel of a life, but the light always turned out to be the bright flash of camera or blinding beam of a spotlight shining down on her innocent being.  
Years were gone as fast as they'd come.  She began to adjust to the cameras and questions, not enjoy them, just accept that they were there and that she needed to do whatever the strangers or her mother told her to.  She still didn't like cats, red, or ice skating, but nobody needed to know that, she would just sit still and smile for the cameras.  Her life as still a tunnel stretching as far as she could see, but she began to learn how to use the spotlights to guide her towards the end. At least that was what she thought they were doing for her. She did not see how she was letting the strangers shape her into society's mold.  Slowly morphing her being into something it would never be, perfect.
Sometimes, to her, days felt like centuries, years felt like moments, but everything in the end felt the same. She got into the routine of things her life became an endless loop of cameras spotlights. She became someone she was not, shallow, dull, everything the strangers wanted her to be.  She grew more and more perfect.  Perfect meaning that she was something that others wanted her to be.
As she grew into adulthood she took this version of her with her as she became even more dependent on society for her life, so she had to bend, twist, and cut herself to fit in and people encouraged her to do whatever it took to become perfect.  Perfect, she chased this ideal blindly because she thought it would make her happy.  Happy, she thought she was happy because she was pretty, because she was polite, because she was famous, but she was not happy she just made others happy, she was bent, twisted, and cut to a point where she could not even identify herself.  She had become someone else who was living for stranger's praise, not her own.  She could fit neatly into societies mold, but she was bruised scraped.  Her pain was blinded by flashing cameras and sparkling gowns, she was not numb, she was just ignorant.  She thought that telling herself she was happy, by letting others tell her she was happy she would become happy.  When she was alone, however, she cried as the pain consumed her.  She longed to be young, to be free.  Before the world grabbed her like she was an animal, trained her harshly, and threw her in a cage while people gawked and stared at her.  She was an animal, the media's pet, and she knew she was going to be in a cage as she cried, she hoped, as her life drifted away from her.